She also advised him on which soirees and garden parties and Venetian breakfasts and such like he ought to attend and which invitations he would be better off declining. “For one cannot go to everything,” she said. “One must be discerning.”
“And that one?” he asked. She was getting toward the bottom of the pile.
“An evening party at the home of Lord and Lady Hodges,” she read aloud. “In honor of the arrival in town of the Earl and Countess of Riverdale—Lady Hodges’s brother and sister-in-law. Ah, andLordHodges’s sister and brother-in-law. A brother and sister married a brother and sister. I see the party is described as a select one. That means it will not be a great squeeze. I daresay most of the guests will be family. The Westcotts are a sizable and close lot.”
“You believe I ought to refuse the invitation, then?” he asked her.
“Oh, by no means,” she said. “This is one you must definitely accept, Gabriel. Lady Hodges is paying you a considerable compliment, given the fact that it is a small party and she does not know your full identity.” She tapped the invitation card with the back of one knuckle. “The Westcotts are extremely well connected—Lord Molenor, the Marquess of Dorchester, the Duke of Netherby, Viscount Dirkson, Lord Hodges. And the Earl of Riverdale himself, of course—head of the family and a very handsome and distinguished gentleman. Let me think. There must be some young, unwed ladies among them too. It might be a good thing to meet them in a more intimate setting than a ball. Yes, of course. Lady Estelle Lamarr is Dorchester’s daughter. Bertie told me you danced with her at the ball. A waltz, I believe? You do not need me to tell you that she is very eligible. Ah! And Lady Jessica Archer is the duke’s sister. Her mother was a Westcott. So were Lady Molenor and Lady Dirkson and Lady Hodges herself. The marchioness was once married to . . .”
But Gabriel was no longer paying full attention. The party was in two days’ time, and the invitation, he remembered Horbath explaining to him when he returned to his hotel from White’s this morning, had not come in the post but had been delivered by hand. The messenger had even wanted to take a reply back with him but had been persuaded to leave without one when he was warned his wait might be a lengthy one.A select party.And Lady Jessica Archer, whose mother was a Westcott, was almost certain to be one of the select persons.
“Thank you for the advice,” he said. “I will certainly go.”
“Lady Estelle would be a very good match for you,” Lady Vickers said. “So would Lady Jessica. In the years since they left the schoolroom, however, neither young lady has shown any inclination to choose a husband. They do not need to be in any hurry, of course, as so many young ladies do. They have the wealth and the connections—and the beauty too—to marry whenever they choose. Now there is a challenge for you, Gabriel, especially if you insist upon remaining stubborn and not making it known that you are the Earl of Lyndale.” She looked hopefully at him.
“I would rather it not be known yet,” he said, and picked up one of the remaining invitations from the pile. “This one is for a masquerade. A costume party. Ought I to attend? And must I acquire some sort of costume if I do?”
She read it. “Ah,” she said. “Yes, this will be a respectable one. Some masquerades are not, you know, but are merely an excuse for vulgarity or worse. But everyone loves a masquerade. This is bound to be well attended. And you must certainly dress up. You will stand out like a sore thumb if you do not.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “I can go as a sore thumb?”
Lady Vickers laughed heartily. “You would certainly be noticed,” she said. “Let me put another scone on your plate.”
Jessica was looking forward to Elizabeth and Colin’s party, which they had arranged to welcome Alexander and Wren back to London. She expected that it would be a small gathering, primarily for the Westcott family and their close connections. But it would be a pleasant change from the rather hectic pace of the more crowded social events she had been attending almost daily since the Parley ball. There would probably be a few other guests from outside the family, otherwise the event would hardly be called a party, but they would be friends, people with whom she would almost certainly be familiar and comfortable.
Mr. Rochford was already showing a marked preference for her. He had stayed by her side for rather longer than was strictly polite at a soiree she had attended two evenings ago, the day after the visit to Richmond Park. He had engaged her in exclusive conversation almost the whole time, making it difficult for anyone else to join them and form a group. He had come to Avery’s box at the theater during the intermission last evening to pay his respects and had ended up paying them almost exclusively to her, though he had bowed to everyone else first and had kissed both her mother’s hand and Anna’s. He had remained until the play was actually resuming. Avery had got to his feet with all the appearance of indolence and held the door of the box open as a hint for him to depart. He was handsome, charming, and . . . oh, and all those other things she had noticed from the start. She ought to be delighted by his attentions, given the fact that this year she was supposedly looking in earnest for a husband. Shewasdelighted. She just wished he would not try quite so hard.
Which was totally illogical of her. Had she not accused Mr. Thorne of not trying hard enough? She had not set eyes upon that gentleman since he handed her down from his curricle outside Archer House on their return from Richmond and she had swept inside without a backward glance. She had embarrassing memories of that afternoon and was quite happy not to have seen him again since. What on earth had possessed her to challenge him toromanceher if he wished to have a chance with her? He was obviously not going to accept the challenge—thank heaven. Except that each morning since, he had sent her a single long-stemmed pink rose.
She had laughed aloud the first time. The rose had been lying across her linen napkin when she arrived for breakfast, a small card tucked beneath it with the single wordThornescrawled boldly across it.
“Oh, do not laugh at the poor man, Jessica,” Anna had urged, though she had been laughing too. “There is something impossibly romantic about a single rose.”
And that, of course, had been the whole point. But it was a sort of ironic romantic gesture, for of course it was meant to be compared with the gigantic bouquet Mr. Rochford had sent her the morning after the Parley ball.
“The man has a sense of humor,” Avery had commented—though he had seemed not to make the connection with the bouquet. “He is drawing attention to the fact that he is the thorn to your rose, Jess. I hope you are suitably affected.”
“Oh, I am,” Jessica had assured him, picking up the rose by the stem, careful to avoid the thorns, and bringing the bud to her nose. She closed her eyes briefly as she inhaled the heady summer scent of it.
She had not expected him to have a sense of humor. Except that there had been that smile . . .
“Mr. Thorne is said to be a wealthy man,” her mother had commented. “He must also be a miserly man, Jessica, if all he can send after you honored him with several hours of your time yesterday is one rose.” But she had been laughing too.
When the second rose arrived the day after and the third this morning, Jessica had taken them to her room without comment. She had already pressed the first one between two heavy books without waiting for it to bloom fully. It was too perfect to be allowed simply to bloom and die.
He had not come to the house again or been at either the soiree or the theater. She wondered how long he would keep sending her pink roses. Why was he doing it? Was this his idea of romancing her? Was it working? She would be very happy to learn that he had left London. It would be embarrassing to meet him again.
In the meanwhile there was the family party, at which she would be safe from the determined courtship of Mr. Rochford and the elusive romancing—if that indeedwashis motive in sending the roses—of Mr. Thorne. Goodness, life had not been this complicated for years.
Elizabeth and Colin’s large drawing room was already half full when Jessica arrived with her mother and Anna and Avery. She greeted them with hugs, hugged Alexander, and took both Wren’s hands in her own and squeezed them.
“Every time I hear of you going to Staffordshire to check on your glassworks, I am inspired,” she said. “And envious. It is why you were late coming to London, Elizabeth told us. You look wonderful. The work must agree with you.”
“It is lovely to be back here,” Wren told her, “and to see everyone again. Christmas seems forever ago.”
Jessica spotted her grandmother and Great-aunt Edith sitting side by side across the room and went to hug them both. She smiled at Miss Boniface, Great-aunt Edith’s companion, who went everywhere with her on the strength of the fact that she was a relative of Great-aunt Edith’s late husband. Cousin Boris was chatting with them too, as was Adrian Sawyer, Viscount Dirkson’s son. Jessica hugged her cousin and greeted Mr. Sawyer with a warm smile. She hugged Peter, Boris’s younger brother, when he joined them and asked him if he had had any waltzing lessons lately. Estelle, she saw when she looked around, was over by one of the windows in a group of young people that included Bertrand, Estelle’s twin brother, and Charlotte Overleigh, formerly Charlotte Rigg, Estelle’s friend, and . . .
Oh.
